


Of Feathers and Fondness

by thebakerstboyskeeper



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And feathers, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, The ravens like Bilbo best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebakerstboyskeeper/pseuds/thebakerstboyskeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Word had traveled rapidly through the mountain of the incident, and Bilbo found a trail of ravens following him. Every time he left Thorin’s side, another bird had joined the trail. News of the mountain was croaked into his pointed ears, his neck and cheeks tickled by soft feathers.</p><p>He had grown fond of his airborne shadows as the winter wore on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Feathers and Fondness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallenRichardBrook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenRichardBrook/gifts).



Bilbo nods to the dwarves he passes, merchants and restoration workers alike, as he tightens his coat. Gone were the days when his presence earned stares, or he was forced to stop for directions to prevent becoming hopelessly lost. Months under the mountain had made him a familiar sight.

His feet carry him up to the safest eastern point of the mountain. After the battle, it was easily agreed upon that the returning ravens should have better than the bloody ruins of Ravenhill.

The cavern had been a lucky find. A quick word with Thorin after that incident had secured it for avian use. The dwarves cleared rubble, carved out entrances and exits, and provided comfort for their feathery friends.

Bilbo pauses in the doorway, glancing at the perches carved into the stone walls. They imitate the safe niches of cliffs the ravens prefer. Those who returned have padded the spaces with foraged grasses and feathers. There are even two nests in spaces close to the ground where he can see them.

A smile touches his lips as he reminisces.

~~

With Thorin bedridden and his nephews taking their first short turns about the halls of the royal wing, the other members of the Company had urged Bilbo to take time for himself. The hobbit tried to stay close. He didn’t trust his sense of direction underground.

He wanted to be there if Thorin needed him. Or needed something. Not necessarily Bilbo.

Stumbling across Fili and Kili snarling in Khuzdul, surrounded by dwarves from the Iron Hills, had caused fear that one or both of them had reopened their wounds to spike in his stomach. Even sharper was the worry that they had perhaps been the targets of dwarven prejudice.

Most of Dain’s dwarves stood behind Thorin, but there was a small group who had been vocal in their dissent. Balin and Roäc’s decision to use some of the younger birds as messengers within the mountain gave them reason to raise their voices in protest. How could they believe in the loyalty of the ravens after being so long away from the dwarves? How could the king entrust important matters to them?

It was all quite ridiculous, in Bilbo’s opinion.

“Nori and Dwalin are watching them,” was all Thorin would say on the matter.

His surprise had been tangible when he found Kili cradling a puff of black feathers and Fili standing protectively in front of his brother. He wasn’t, however, slow to catch on to what he was seeing.

A furious hobbit had sent the surrounding dwarves scattering.

Word had traveled rapidly through the mountain of the incident, and Bilbo found a trail of ravens following him. Every time he left Thorin’s side, another bird had joined the trail. News of the mountain was croaked into his pointed ears, his neck and cheeks tickled by soft feathers.

He had grown fond of his airborne shadows as the winter wore on.

And they deserved a better place to roost.

~~

A flurry of black feathers surrounds him as he steps into sight. The birds have all learned he keeps scraps tucked in his pockets for them. He doesn’t even bother to scold them anymore. Nor to tell them to wait their turn. Fauntlings and ravens have very different manners, he’s learned.

The arrival of the largest raven through the skylight opening sends the others back to their perches. Roäc settles onto Bilbo’s outstretched arm, ruffling his wings and cocking his head. His beady eyes meet the hobbit’s.

Bilbo can’t decide if the look is meant to be a greeting or an accusation.

“What does Prince Legolas have to say today, my good sir?”

In the smoothest Sindarin he’s heard yet, Roäc delivers a simple greeting from the Woodland Realm. Bilbo listens with a smile. The resistance against his suggestion that a few ravens learn to communicate with the Elves in their native tongue had faded when he pointed out it would ease some of the remaining tension in their trade negotiations. And though Bilbo’s Sindarin was far from perfect, Thorin had set him to the task.

Many cold mornings were spent here in the beginning. He sat with the ravens and listened to their gossip with proper hobbitish politeness before moving on to language lessons. Some days, he comforted himself with their attention and pushed away the loneliness that threatened. After traveling with and getting to know his dwarves, his solitary lifestyle seemed bleak and foreign.

Thorin was back on his feet and attending to kingly duties, Dwalin and Balin at his side. The other members of the Company were hard at work in the midst of the efforts to restore the Lonely Mountain. The evenings were spent with many of his friends, but winter had a way of creeping into his soul and made him long for, well, company.

There were only so many documents he could assist with before his mind refused to function properly anymore.

When that happened, he turned to the ravens.

Sometimes, Bilbo stayed so long that he missed lunch. Kili was usually the one to bring him whatever Bombur had cooked up in the kitchens. The young prince’s limp would never completely fade, but his spirit was as steady as ever. On the days his brother was required elsewhere as the heir, Kili would sit with Bilbo. He even picked up bits and pieces of Sindarin, but he always ushered the hobbit out when he deemed it too cold.

(Not long after, a pallet of heavy furs had appeared for Bilbo, no doubt on Thorin’s orders. He didn’t complain. It made everything much more comfortable.)

Their first attempt at sending a message to Mirkwood hadn’t been a success. Roäc returned looking harassed and screeching about being shot at. A second battle had been looming when Legolas himself appeared to seek an audience and apologize for the misunderstanding. The hobbit suspected it was against his father’s wishes, but kept that to himself.

Upon speaking with Bilbo, the elven prince had agreed to receive the messages, both practice and important.

He offers a strip of dried meat to Roäc. After snatching it with his sharp beak, the bird swoops up to his perch for a well deserved rest. Bilbo pads over to the closest nest, peeking in at the mottled olive colored eggs. All three are protected by their proud mother, who greets him excitedly.

“Any day now!” she trills.

“Really? Perfectly in time with the arrival of spring!” Bilbo says.

A chorus of squawks behind him has the hobbit turning. His stomach flutters like the wings of the birds around him when he sees Thorin standing just inside the doorway. His blue gaze sweeps along the walls of the aviary before coming to settle on Bilbo. He offers one of his rare gentle smiles.

“How did our last message fare?”

“Quite well. I suspect Legolas has been supplementing my lessons. Roäc’s Sindarin is better than my own!”

The dwarf moves closer, giving the aforementioned raven a respectful nod. Roäc clicks his beak in acknowledgment before settling once again. He, unlike Bilbo, does not appreciate the way Thorin’s rich blue garb and tasteful silver embellishments reflect the proud dwarf who has secured a home and future for his people as well as his birthright, and quite possibly the affections of one hobbit.

“Master Bilbo! Master Bilbo!”

Bilbo turns at the excited voice to see an olive egg trembling and setting the other two into motion, their mama hovering over them. Thorin joins him in watching as the first tiny piece of shell breaks loose.

“Your first raven born to Erebor, oh King Under the Mountain.”

Thorin attempts to cover his snort with a cough.

As they watch the three chicklets press their way into to the world, Roäc floats down to join them. He is shooed from the edge of the nest by an anxious mother and turns his beak up at Thorin’s offered arm. He alights on Bilbo’s shoulder to watch.

The tiny ravens that tumble into the nest amidst egg shells are . . . ugly. Bilbo hopes his thoughts are not displayed on his face as the naked things stumble around, eyes sealed and sparse tufts of grey downy feathers breaking up the pink expanse of their skin. Roäc puffs his breast proudly while Bilbo forces a smile.

“Congratulations,” he offers, praying the fluffy feathers will soon spread. He knows they must. The ravens cawing in joy around him are proof they will eventually grow.

Thorin offers a blessing in his own tongue before saying, “Please excuse us. Master Baggins and I must attend to something.”

With a hand on his back guiding him from the the room, Bilbo calls out a farewell before he finds himself walking side by side with the dwarf back into the depths of the mountain. They travel in silence as the hobbit wonders what Thorin needs to “attend” to. The image of the newly hatched ravens flits through his mind and he finds himself choking back laughter.

He pauses as Thorin places a hand on his shoulder, one brow raised in inquiry. Bilbo tries to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry! They’re just . . . so . . . so . . . unfortunate looking!”

“Ugly,” Thorin corrects. “I believe you mean ugly.”

Bilbo nods, taking a deep breath as he brings himself back under control. What a fool he must look like, standing here with the dwarven king, laughing about ugly raven chicklets.

Thorin is smiling again, and goodness, Bilbo is not used to such an expression making his already handsome face brighter. He reaches out, his fingers tangling in Bilbo’s curls and drawing away with a large black feather between them. It glints violet and emerald tones as he turns it in the light.

Bilbo clears his throat.

“You had something that needed doing?” he prompts.

Thorin straightens, his chin lifting automatically. It’s the stance Bilbo has come to recognize as the one Thorin uses when he is about to say something Very Important.

“I thought it was time to arrange more permanent accommodations for you. And once again extend my offer to stay in Erebor as long as you wish. You have come to mean much to us and I would not wish to see you leave. I mean, the Company wishes you to stay.”

Bilbo blinks. It was a thought that had crossed his mind several times throughout the winter when he realized the idea of returning to Bag End wasn’t as appealing as it had been during the beginning of their quest. After everything that happened, despite apologies and forgiveness, he hadn’t expected this.

Thorin takes his silence poorly.

“Of course, if you wish to return to your home, you will be sent with everything you could want and guards and you need not feel any obligation to me--”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts, smiling as he rocks on his heels. The dwarven king stops, his mouth snapping shut and a faint tinge of red appearing on his cheeks. Bilbo’s heart skips. Perhaps there is more to this than he ever dared hope.

“Fili tells me there is a room with a balcony near my temporary lodging.”

**Author's Note:**

> For FallenRichardBrook! I think I gave you more feathery fluff than actual schmoopy fluff, but I hope you enjoy it. Happy Holidays! <3


End file.
